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I had a lot on my mind, in a manner of speaking. I was looking around at the remnants of the struggle that had taken place, though the battle had moved on far beyond here. It was an old fort in the mountains where a tribe of orcs had taken refuge and had turned into an encampment. It was here among the rainfall beneath overcast skies that I gave my final breath.

I was not ashamed at my death; it was a good death. It was in battle, and more importantly it was a death that I accepted so that a child could live. The orcs had kidnapped her, and who knew what they had planned to do with her. I was hired along with a small group of fellow adventurers to rescue her. The others made it out alive, and the child was unharmed. They gave me a warrior’s burial at the site where I perished, letting my trusty sword serve as my headstone.

I didn’t expect tears, none of them had known me well. I was sweet on one of them, but I would never know if the feeling was mutual. I had planned to ask once we returned from the job. But I was not to return.

Idly, my spirit, or whatever consciousness was guiding my senses now, looked over at the rest of the bodies. The orcs. I wondered if they, too, thought they had good deaths. Were their ghosts asking the same questions here with me?

I walked, or perhaps glided, outside the fort to where I had been buried. It was a painless and immediate process. One moment I was hurling myself into a crossbowman’s line of fire, the next I was outside my body, peering at it.

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